


Fierce and Free

by bunn



Series: Mandos [6]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: All horses go to heaven, Cats, Fëanorian Week 2018, Gen, Halls of Mandos, Wolves, hounds, kingship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-05 12:37:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14044416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunn/pseuds/bunn
Summary: Celegorm in the Halls of Mandos fights with Caranthir, meets a cat, appeals to Fingolfin for aid, and reflects on domestication, kingship and the nature of hounds and wolves.   Huan thinks he talks a great deal of nonsense.





	Fierce and Free

The Halls of Mandos came as a relief. Celegorm had expected Darkness Everlasting, had been prepared to face it if he must, as he had given his word to do.

The Halls of Mandos were not dark. A little gloomy perhaps, and full of glum-faced disapproving Maiar, but Father was there, his great bright spirit blazing like the flame-light of Laurelin, and Grandfather too.

Celegorm and Curufin arrived almost together, so there was no need to worry that Curvo had got lost somewhere along the way. Very shortly after, Caranthir joined them, his spirit white and stiff with shock.

For a while that was enough. It was more mercy than he had dared to hope for when Dior’s swift blade had so unexpectedly cut short his life.

There was no more life to be had, in the Halls of Awaiting. What they were supposed to be awaiting was never stated, since Fëanor and his sons would never be permitted return to life, not until the ending of the world. Námo, Lord of these Halls,  had left them in little doubt about that.

Forms came into shape around them, rough images of the bodies they had worn and lost. Caranthir took longest, for he had seen his brothers die, and it had shaken him more than Celegorm expected.

But after that... nothing more. Tapestries upon the walls, showing Alqualondë, Luthien and blood upon the walls of Menegroth, and a space large enough to pace in while thinking of the past. Their grandfather came and went, visiting the Looms of Vairë and his other grandchildren, but Fëanor and his sons were not permitted such freedom.

Celegorm loved his father and his brothers, he loved his grandfather too. Yet after a while he would have died quite cheerfully all over again, to buy the chance to have time without the sharp pale faces of the House of Finwë, to have space and silence for his own thoughts. He longed to see trees, feel fur flick beneath his hand, and speak wordlessly with horses, hounds and hawks, all of them lost in Beleriand far away.

One hound in particular too, though he did not speak of Huan, or think of him if he could manage it.

The argument started between Caranthir and Curufin, as arguments in their family usually did: Curufin needling at some small remembered matter, Caranthir taking him far too seriously and flaring back at him. Celegorm stepped in as usual, to support Curufin, who was younger and had always needed a little more looking after than the others.

Anyway, it was good to have an excuse to shout for once. Caranthir could more than stand up for himself, and Father was here in case it all became too serious.

Caranthir screamed at Curufin, Curufin laughed, and Father asked them to be quiet, though not in any very serious way.

Celegorm told Caranthir to be calm, which made him even more furious, and it occurred to Celegorm to wonder if it was possible to have a fist-fight without a real body, and whether they would bruise if they did. It might be fun to find out, since Father had not actually stopped them yet.

“The whole attack on Doriath was your stupid idea!” Caranthir said, in a voice that he had almost entirely lost control of.

“It had to be done!” Celegorm told him savagely. “Don’t be such a fool. The Oath...”

“The Oath was no trouble to us through all the Long Peace,” Caranthir said, venomously. “Until Lúthien rejected and embarrassed you, and even Huan would have nothing more to do with you.” And suddenly things were deadly serious.

“I’m not talking about that,” Celegorm said and turned away.

“Lúthien rejected you, _you_ lost your son, _you_ lost your dog, and nothing would soothe your wounded pride but you must make a great matter of the Oath and kill her son. And you both dragged all of us into it, and got me killed as well!”

“There was. No. CHOICE!” Celegorm made a fist and lunged.

And Father spoke, in his voice of steel, the voice of power that had answered even the envoy of the Valar and sent him hurrying on his way. “Enough!”

The power in his voice stopped all three of them in mid-word, and for a brief moment there was silence.

And then the locked and unseen doors flew open, and Maiar in many forms came rushing in, armed with strange silvery nets and throwing ropes, and Celegorm got his wish for a fight.

But there were only four of them, unarmed and bodiless, and Caranthir did not make a proper fight of it, but threw up his hands. There were too many of them around Father, and even his bright spirit could not resist them. They were caught and bound, and then Námo came in, tall and dark as a pillar of granite, to give his judgement.

“You are not permitted to use words of power, Curufinwë Fëanáro,” Námo said to Father. Father looked at him with furious eyes, restrained and silent. Námo had taken away his voice as soon as he entered. “My judgement is that you shall have silence for a year, in penance. Consider well during this time. The term will be twelve years, should you choose to break my law again.”

“How dare you!” Curufin exclaimed angrily. “He spoke to us only to give his own judgement, as our father and our king.”

“You have no right to come between us,” Celegorm told Námo. “Your judgement is unfair, unjust and unlawful. You have no right to command us at all. Release our father and our rightful king: we will obey no-one but him!”

“We will not obey any command but our father’s,” Curufin confirmed, standing beside him loyal as always. Father, of course, said nothing, and the Maiar still held them firm.

“He may not give commands,” Námo said. “This is not his domain, but mine: you gave up your right to other law when you entered my halls. I am King of the Dead, and you are dead, and shall remain so.”

“An unjust kingship, for we did not choose it, Lord of Thralls,” Celegorm said, coldly furious.

“If this is thralldom, then you cannot escape it. It is your nature to be bound to Arda,” Námo said unemotionally, and if Celegorm had been free, he would certainly have hit him.

Námo waved at the Maiar holding them. “Bring them,” he said, and then, turning to Celegorm and Curufin, “If being in company with your father incites rebellion, then I must find another place for you.” And the Maiar dragged them out, leaving Father still standing silent and constrained, and Caranthir, unregarded and ignored, next to him.

They took Curufin in one direction, and Celegorm the other, and pushed him into a hall much like the one that they had shared with Father, except that this one was empty, and had a narrow slit of a window that looked out on nothing much save for a blank wall. The same dim light, not quite the same tapestries lining the tall walls, but they still showed blood on the walls of Menegroth, Lúthien, the dead of Alqualondë. Celegorm glanced at them, rolled his eyes and then ignored them. He paced instead, to get rid of the anger, and tried not to think of Curvo, who would certainly be far more upset than Celegorm was, or of his father held voiceless.

After that, since there was nothing else to do, he began to walk through his memory, hunting through the wild green hills of East Beleriand. He must have been there a good long while before a flicker of movement caught his attention, and pulled him back to the dull grey now.

There was something moving some distance away in the shadow, like a little piece of night that walked. He watched it for a while, and saw it flicker, black to grey to tabby-brindle and back again into a pool of blackness. It was not a great spirit of power, this one, no Maia of Mandos or spirit of the land, only a small and unimportant creature, stripped of body and fur, yet somehow holding on to whatever it was that made it cat.

“Good day, Cat,” he said to it eventually, in the language that most cats spoke, and it opened wide surprised eyes that were amber or green or yellow all in turn. Then it flickered into the shadows and was lost.

“You’re right,” he agreed. “I am far too tall, and I smell of blood. But then, you are a hunter yourself. You smell of blood too.” He lay down on the floor and rested his unreal head upon his imagined arms, and watched the shadows.

“I don’t suppose Námo likes you much either,” he suggested to the cat. “I’ve never met a cat that hunted like an obedient hound, catching only the prey her master set for her.”

The cat gave him an unimpressed look.

Celegorm raised his eyebrows in return. “Cats have no masters? An enviable situation indeed.”

The cat, reassured by his unthreatening pose flat upon the floor, ventured cautiously a little way from the shadow.

“I am surprised to see you here,” Celegorm admitted. “The Valar are not, in general, lovers of cats. Do you hunt the birds of Manwë, Cat? There are none here. How did you get in?”

The cat held its small nose in the air, with an expression of absolute innocence.

“Oh very well then. Don’t tell me! But you aren’t supposed to be here, are you?” he asked, amused.

The cat made a gesture with its back and tail that made it clear that it would not be told where it should walk.

“Perhaps we have something in common, you and I... I turned wolf. I’m sure that’s what Oromë thinks I did, when I turned upon their sheep and tore at them. I wish I could think myself a cat. Cats own no master, so you say, and they hunt as they wish, for that is their nature.”

The cat thought about that, and then wandered out of the shadow and casually butted at his hand. He stroked it.

“Maedhros would be quick to point out that cats do not swear oaths or make gems. A picky type, my eldest brother... Perhaps I must be an Elf after all.”

He rubbed the cat’s ears. “I am glad to have your company,” he told it. “I wish I had some delicacy to offer you in return for your favour.”

The cat sniffed, in a manner that suggested that a sardine would be a welcome gift.

“Alas, I have no fish,” Celegorm said. “Not so much as a spider can I offer you. I don’t think Mandos has much of any kind of life. A dull place.” He thought about that for a while, and the cat twitched its tail imperiously and its whiskers shimmered white and then darkened to ginger.

“But then,” he ventured to suggest, “you don’t have a real body. In fact, I don’t think you remember what colour your fur was. You don’t have a tongue to taste fish with or a stomach to put it in... Perhaps a memory of fish would suffice.”

It seemed worth a try. He summoned up the memory of a nice grilled trout that long ago he had caught and eaten beside a mountain-river running clear and cold down from the mountains of the Pelóri, and offered it to the cat, who accepted it with enthusiasm. Then after a while, she flicked her tail in polite farewell, and walked away out of sight.

Celegorm ran his hands down the walls, almost forgetting that his hands were not made of flesh and that the wall was probably built more from Námo’s thought than any stone of the world. They looked like stone, massive slabs of stone beneath the thick tapestries that covered them that probably were also spun from thought.

He searched methodically, covering every inch of floor and wall as far up as he could reach. The window did not open, and could not be broken. He looked carefully through the shadows in the corners of the empty room.

There was no gap in the wall, and no shadow dark enough to hide a cat.

And yet, the cat had been there, and now was not. A neat trick.

The cat would probably come again.

He stretched out on the floor of the Halls of Mandos, his head pillowed on his arms, calm and quite untroubled, as if he were resting in a woodland under stars, and waited.

*******

An undefinable amount of time later, the cat returned, carrying something that was, presumably, not really the mangled corpse of a nightingale, but only a memory of it.

“My thanks, but I am not hungry,” he told her, and so she ate the bird herself, crunching a little on the bones. Afterwards they played for a while with a long wing-feather, until the memory of the bird faded and was gone.

A scrabble of soft paws, and the cat had gone. A moment later, one of Námo’s Maiar entered, not through a door, but simply by appearing in front of him.

Celegorm came swiftly to his feet and regarded it with distaste. It was the kind that was a globe of fire with stiff, widespread raven’s wings and no obvious face, which he found made it hard to speak to. “What do you want?” he asked it.

“I am sent to speak with you of your crimes, and of repentance,” it said in a high musical voice like harpsong.

Celegorm gave a short, incredulous laugh. “Repentance?”

“Do you repent your rebellion and murder of your kin?” it asked him.

“No. What have you done with my brother Curufin? I want to talk to him.”

“That is not permitted,” it told him.

“Why not?”

“The unbodied spirit is best in isolation, where it can come to repentance without interruption.”

“That didn’t work for my father, and it certainly won’t work for Curufin. Let me talk to him.”

“That is not permitted at this time.”

Celegorm rolled his eyes. “ Where were you when the Enemy came into Valinor, slew my grandfather, and stole my father’s Silmarils?” he enquired pleasantly. “Here in the Halls of Mandos, preparing smug little homilies about how guilty my father was, for daring to argue with Fingolfin, perhaps? Have you ever faced the Enemy? Have you ever endured his darkness? Have you even been in Middle-earth?”

“That is unimportant.”

“It is essential,” Celegorm told it, and pushed power into his voice. “You come to me and speak of repentance and rebellion, and yet you are too craven to face our Enemy. You know nothing of what I’ve seen, so how can you understand what I have done? You come to me and say I was a rebel! I, when I and my brothers went out to hold the border against Morgoth and all his creatures! Do you know what Morgoth’s servants do to the unwary? Have you seen his spiders catch a child and hold it struggling in their webs, to die slowly in terror and in torment?”

The Maia flinched uncomfortably.

“Have you seen the terror and the darkness lie like shackles across the minds of those he takes as thralls?” Celebrimbor enquired, genially, almost smiling. “Have you killed to keep them from returning to him? Have you seen your brother hang in torment, felt the hands of orcs upon you, knowing what will happen if you cannot throw them off? Have you ever faced a dragon in battle? No?”

“We have seen their spirits come to the Halls of Awaiting,” the Maia said in a subdued voice. “And we remember the darkness before the Trees, and the Unlight at the Fall of Almaren.”

“You remember the Long Night,” Celegorm said. “You remember the Darkness, and you fled here to Valinor to hide from it across the seas, and left the lands to suffer without you. But I and my brothers went out sword in hand against the Darkness, to avenge our king and seek the stolen Light. How _dare_ you speak of rebellion to me, craven one?”

Celegorm did not have his father’s power, nor his subtlety, and probably this was one of Námo’s stronger servants. The Maia was shaken, but it was not convinced.

“My lord Námo sent me to speak to you of rebellion and repentance,” it said, rallying. “You rebelled against the Valar. You slew your kin. Do you repent?”

“Let me see Curufin and I’ll think about it,” Celegorm said, and that was not quite a lie, because thinking was a long way from repentance.

“That is not...”

“Oh, just fuck _off!_ ” Celegorm said. Whether his words held the power to banish the Maia, or whether it had decided it had fulfilled its task, he was not sure, but it beat its wide black wings once, and vanished.

The cat reappeared, flicking her tail at him encouragingly. He was not sure how much of his words she had understood, but it was clear that she was on his side. “A pleasant change to make a friend,” he said, and offered her the memory of roast breast of pheasant, a titbit that was accepted graciously. “You haven’t seen my brother Curufin, have you?”

The cat’s tail curled interrogatively. Celegorm made a rough shape of Curufin in his mind. “A little taller than me, male. Dark hair, grey eyes...”

The cat gave him an incredulous look, sat down and washed a foot which turned from black to white with small pink toes as she licked at it.

“A fair point,” Celegorm admitted. “You can’t remember what you look like yourself, and Mandos must be full of Elves that look more or less like Curufin. I sent a few here myself that would fit that description, for that matter. But he will smell like me.”

The cat looked at him scornfully.   
  
“Only as a favour?” Celegorm suggested hopefully, and sat down next to her upon the floor.

The cat continued washing, and thought about it. Then she jumped upon his knee, the memory of small claws pricking through his tunic, and presented him with a strange, chaotic whirl that made him blink. She saw pose and movement, not form, and everything was layered over with scent more sharply defined than his own nose could manage.

But he had untangled the memories of hounds often enough, and now he would _not_ think of Huan, for Celegorm had taken himself away from the hounds and joined the wolves... and the thoughts of cats were entirely different anyway.

A brief flash of shapes in movement that were Father, Grandfather and Caranthir together, Father pacing angrily, Caranthir making a strange incomprehensible babbling sound; Quenya heard through the ears of a cat. Grey halls, their walls figured with shadows of textured, scratchable fabric, dotted with figures that were more or less elf-like in their scent and movement.

Someone’s back...Fingon, could it be? No, it was Fingolfin, the way he squared his shoulders then, unmistakeable, and there, that was Fingon speaking to him, still carrying the scorched acidic smell of balrog whips about him. Someone else... two more cousins of another house, nephews of Mother. Celegorm shook his head. None of these.

Ah! A hint of scent, a form still and silent in a corner, seen in passing from a strange angle, but he recognised the shape of him. Curufin, hands curled tight around his knees. The cat had run past seeking more entertaining company, but she had seen him.

“How _do_ you pass through the walls?” he asked her, and received only a dizzying whirl of paws placed firmly and a sense of a tail balanced behind her. “Will you show me?”

But when she danced away from him on small silent feet, she vanished into greyness that to him was strong as solid stone.

He hit the wall once with his fist, frustrated. Then he turned away. There was no point throwing himself at stone. He retreated into memory instead, saving frustration for the moment when it might be useful.

The next time he saw the cat, he had a theory.

“I think,” he told the cat, “that Námo has no room in his great thoughts and dooms for cats. You are only Oromë’s affair, small hunter, not Námo’s and so it is you slip through Námo’s thought like smoke. Oromë’s thoughts are with the chase, and not with walls, even though he draws a line between the wolves and hounds. Oromë is not much concerned with the ordered world, with stars and rocks and trees and Elves set in their place and dancing to the song that must be sung. It isn’t only the Enemy who breaks borders and leaps fences, no matter what Námo and Aulë may think.”

He rubbed the cat carefully beneath its chin, and she favoured him with a long rich purr.

“I wonder if Eru himself would say that Námo neglects his duty, in making walls that cannot hold cats? Eru did make his precious Aftercomers to go beyond the borders of the world.”

The cat looked at him, wide eye shifting yellow-green, then walked in a circle around his feet.

“A good point,” Celegorm admitted. “It was Eru who bound us to the circles of the world. Whether he meant us to live under the rule of the Valar, or be entombed in the Halls of Mandos, Elves and cats alike are limited in that respect.”

The cat lifted its nose disdainfully. “You, I and my father too,” Celegorm said ruefully. “None of us wishes to be a thrall. But Námo _is_ concerned with me, and with my family. I can’t change that, any more than you could choose to be a dog.”

The cat narrowed its eyes, looking very unimpressed.

“Oh very well! You would not wish to be a dog... is that what my grandfather chose, do you think, Cat?”

The cat blinked at him in bafflement, and it occurred to Celegorm that cats had no particular need to know of Elvish history. But it butted at his ankle encouragingly, so he explained.

“Long ago, Oromë came to my grandfather, and to his people. Some of the other peoples of the Elves, too. He offered them light and peace and knowledge in Valinor, and they chose to follow him across the Sea. My father thought it a bargain with unintended consequences, and wished to leave the Valar again and go East across the Sea. Then when my grandfather died, we swore to leave and find our revenge, and for that they banished us. Bad dog! Go home, they might have said.” He laughed.

The cat listened attentively, ears forward and paws tucked against its chest, but had no comment to make.

“I wondered if Oromë thought we had turned to wolves, when they banished us, before ever we fought our kin at Alqualondë... But that would mean we were their hounds before. I hunted the Enemy’s wolves, in Beleriand, but now I wonder if I was one of them. Were we _tamed_ , Cat? They gave us walls, comfort, safety, and made us greater than we were, but I wonder. Did we choose Námo’s kingship, when we chose to come to Aman? Perhaps we did, all unknowing.”

The cat scratched its ear.

“I suppose it is too much to ask that you should answer that, when I’m not sure if my grandfather could. But I thought that I might ask, for it seems that cats have trodden the path between wild and tame more artfully than we have.”

The cat almost shrugged.

“Not your affair? I suppose not. But still, I wish I’d taken counsel with a cat, and listened less to hounds. Hounds think only of the chase, and find it hard to turn from their masters. Some of them do manage it, though.”

He regarded the cat which stared back at him, unblinking. “None of this matters,” he told it. “Hound or hare or wolf, no matter which I am, I can’t leave Curvo to it alone. It isn’t fair. If he’s a wolf, it’s only because I led him into it... Would you carry a message for me? As a favour to a friend? I suppose I could stand here and yell for Námo and eventually he’d hear me, but he won’t listen to me.”

The cat arched its back and bristled, retreating. “Not a message to Námo! “ Celegorm reassured it. “Only to an elf.”

The cat flicked its tail dismissively.

“Yes, I know he won’t understand your speech,” Celegorm said, cajolingly. “But you could carry him a small memory, if you felt like it?”

******

Celegorm came to his feet abruptly, as a Maia entered. This time it was one that looked much like an elf. With her was Fingolfin. He dismissed the Maia with enviable ease.

“You wanted to speak with me, I think,” Fingolfin said, looking wary, if Fingolfin could ever be said to look wary, once the Maia had gone. “Why?”

Celegorm bowed. “I have a boon to beg of my High King,” he said, which made his uncle’s expression amusingly surprised for a moment. Then it settled into a sceptical look instead.

“I was under the impression that you had the gravest doubts about my kingship, and acknowledged it only because your brother Maedhros insisted upon it,” Fingolfin said. “And now both of us are dead, and subject to the rule of Námo anyway.”

“I had my doubts at first, I’ll admit,” Celegorm said easily. “But I swore fealty to you, my lord, and I fought for you as I was ordered. I hope you will not suggest that I give my word lightly.”

“I suppose not,” Fingolfin said, very dubiously. “What is this boon you’d ask?”

“They took Curvo away,” Celegorm said bluntly. “I’m worried about him. He’s not as tough as he might be. He should be with Father, or with me. I beg you to appeal to Námo for him.”

“He’s safe enough in these Halls, and after what I hear of what the pair of you did to Finrod in Nargothrond, I’m not inclined to pity Curufin any more than Námo does,” Fingolfin said sharply, although Celegorm thought the carefully-chosen word ‘beg’ had hit the mark.

Celegorm gave his uncle a deliberately wolfish grin. “Finrod knew what he was doing. His oath was set against ours, and as I told you, I don’t break my word. Something had to give, and Finrod was quite clear the Silmarils were ours.”

“And of course, when the wishes of the House of Fëanor come into conflict with anyone else, the other party must make way,” Fingolfin said, almost waspishly. “What makes you think I can do anything to help you, even if I wanted to?”

“If Námo listens to anyone in his Halls, he’ll listen to you,” Celegorm admitted reluctantly. “You fought the Enemy single-handed and wounded him sorely, by all accounts. Námo will take you seriously.”

“Even if Námo would listen to me, why should I grant such a request? You might have owed me allegiance once, but in practice, you barely obeyed even Maedhros, and if I’d ever given you a direct command, I know perfectly well you would have found any excuse not to follow it. I hardly owe you a favour.”

“Because it pleases your pride that I should have to ask you,” Celegorm said, annoyed but honest. “Because, given your nature, you must be bored with the Halls of Mandos by now, and it would be something to do. Because it would vex Námo, and you don’t like him any more than I do. And most of all, because it’s something that my father would do if he could, but he can’t.”

The faint smile dawning on Fingolfin’s face went away again and he looked serious. “That is unjust,” he said. “I have my own grievance against my brother, but I hope I am not quite so petty as that.”

“In that case, why not prove it and help us?”

“I’m not required to prove anything to you, Celegorm. Or to your brother Curufin. Rather the opposite. Even setting aside your behaviour towards Finrod, who had a double claim on you, both as your cousin and as your host who gave you refuge from your enemies, what of what you did to Lúthien and Beren?”

“She wanted to go alone without her father’s leave to the Isle of Werewolves,” Celegorm said. “Would _you_ have let her go? Her father tried to stop her!”

“That’s beside the point,” Fingolfin said. “You seized a woman of Doriath by force, and then Curufin tried to kill her, and wounded her companion. That is unlawful, and you know it.”

“Very well, it was unlawful!” Celegorm exclaimed impatiently. “Perhaps I should have let Lúthien walk into thralldom, if she insisted on it — you know how many the Enemy has taken, we had no way to know that Lúthien would be different —, and Curvo should have handed over his knife and horse like a good generous little prince to her pet Aftercomer, and not lost his temper or fired an arrow at them. It was unlawful and unseemly and even my dog knew it. But nobody was badly hurt.”

“Apart from Finrod, and eventually, Thingol’s heir and many of his people,” Fingolfin said inflexibly. “You claim to owe me allegiance. I require _my_ people to observe the rule of law.”

“Except when the Valar command you not to leave, and you walk across the Grinding Ice to disobey them,” Celegorm pointed out.

Fingolfin paused and looked up at the indistinct ceiling for a moment. If either of them had had breath, he would have taken one.  “Celegorm, I don’t think this conversation is going where you hoped it would,” he said, sounding annoyingly, deliberately patient. “And yet, I can see you are concerned for your brother, and no matter what else you have done, that is to your credit. Perhaps we should begin again. You feel that your brother Curufin should not be wherever Námo has put him, which is presumably somewhere very like where he has put you. Why is this so important? You are well enough, are you not?”

Celegorm looked at him uneasily, but he could see no other path to take. “I don’t need the pity that the Doom of Mandos denies us all,” he said. “But Curvo does. He has far too much imagination.”

“Go on,” Fingolfin said unhelpfully. “Explain.”

“You didn’t hear what he said, in Nargothrond,” Celegorm said. “It set fear on all of them. I’ve never heard anything like it. There were only a few in Nargothrond who would go out to war after that, and I would dare swear that most of those were not in the great hall, and did not hear Curvo speak. The fear he set hung over them, you could smell it. And it was Curvo’s own fear. I’d never heard him speak of it, till then, though you could see there was something there, something he was hiding, if you knew him well enough. And then... I spoke first, when Finrod called upon his people to march out to war. You know how I talk. Fire and fine words, and sometimes people listen, and sometimes they don’t. Their choice. But then _Curvo_ spoke, and... They could barely stand under it, some of them, it was like they were falling into a pool of terror, dark and inescapable... Finrod is tough enough, and Beren too, or it would have drowned them too, the shadow of Curvo’s fear. I was surprised that there were ten prepared to go with them, after that.”

“Your family are gifted with words, I know” Fingolfin said. “But this fear you speak of doesn’t seem to have affected you.”

“Not much,” Celegorm said. “I’m not the imaginative type. Point me at the enemy and I’ll do my work and not think too hard about it. But I saw the fear that Curvo had been hiding then, and I... even I was shaken. If it were only me, I am content to be alone. It doesn’t trouble me at all, in fact I enjoy the peace. But I can’t leave Curvo with that shadow of fear upon him. He rode out to war despite it. That was brave, braver, probably, than anything that either you or I will ever do, because I don’t think either of us will ever know that depth of fear. I can see it lying on him, and I can’t leave my little brother drowning in it.”

Fingolfin raised dark eyebrows in what seemed genuine surprise. “Very well. I’ll go to Curufin now, and see if he is well. If I have any cause for concern, I will speak to Námo.”

“He’ll never admit it to Námo, or to you, but that doesn’t mean that all is well with him. ”

Fingolfin regarded him thoughtfully. “You know, I was fond of your father, whatever you may believe,” he said. “Full brother in heart, I said, and I meant it. I don’t use words like that lightly. The Shadow lay on us all before ever we came to Alqualondë, before ever we understood what the Enemy was... I will speak with Námo. And if need be I will stay with Curufin myself, though I am sure he would greatly prefer your company to mine.”

When Fingolfin went away, the cat came back, and made a great business of jumping smugly upon Celegorm’s shoulder and paddling its paws against his neck.

It was some time before he saw anyone other than the cat, though that did not trouble him, except to wonder what Curvo had said to Fingolfin, and whether he was well.

But eventually, a door opened in the wall, and Fingolfin entered. Celegorm was lying on the floor at the time, and saw no reason to get up.

“I have spoken with Námo of your brother Curufin,” Fingolfin said, looking down at him with an expression of some distaste. “ I could not persuade Námo that Curufin should be in company with your father, but I have convinced him to agree that you may spend some time with your brother, and that your mother’s nephews may also speak with him.”

“Good,” Celegorm said, and got up. “I’ll go to him now, shall I?”

“No,” Fingolfin said, and an irritating smile came onto his face. “Aredhel is with him now: she kindly offered, and they were always friends.  I have explained to Námo that you asked my aid as my sworn vassal. He was unconvinced that you had any such claim upon me or my House. So I have told him that I shall demonstrate it. You shall work for me in the stables of Mandos. I expect to hear no complaints of you from my horse Rochallor or his fellows.”

Celegorm blinked at him. “You want me to be your stable-boy? _Me?”_

“Yes,” Fingolfin said. “You asked a boon of me as your king. Námo thinks you accept no authority and no obligation save that you choose for yourself, and that therefore, I have no duty to you, or right to intercede on your behalf. You have something to prove, Celegorm.”

“And if I refuse?” Celegorm asked, outraged.

“Dear me,” Fingolfin said, suspiciously mildly. “It had not occurred to me that you might refuse. I thought you did not give your word lightly. What Námo might do if I go to him and tell him that he was right.. I do not think he would be much concerned for Curufin, or would choose to allow him pity. It would not really be my affair, of course, if you forswore your allegiance.”

“But...”

“This is the best arrangement I was able to make for you both,” Fingolfin told him, and there was steel glinting in his voice. “Think yourself fortunate. Námo’s first suggestion was that you should begin by renewing your fealty to me in the Great Hall of Mandos, before all the assembled dead: the supporters of your house, mine, and most of all, your father.”

Celegorm winced.

“I talked Námo around to this. Nothing public, and nothing to humiliate your father.”

“Do the Halls of Mandos even _have_ stables?”

“They do now,” Fingolfin said. “A great many horses died with their riders in Dagor Bragollach, and more in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. Horses, hounds... cats, even. The Halls of Mandos have been extended. I think Námo was surprised at the scale required.”

“Fine,” Celegorm said, shrugging. “If I must, then I must.”

“Good,” Fingolfin said. “You can start with my horses and those of my personal guard, and after that, Fingon’s horses, and those of his companies of horse-archers.”

“ _Fingon’s_ horses?” Celegorm said, pained. Fingon’s taste in horses was as valiant as the rest of him.

Fingon’s father looked at him with an innocent expression that did not fool Celegorm at all. “Fingon has a taste for a horse with a sense of humour,” he said. ”They will keep you busy enough, I imagine, until the time comes for the Maiar to take you to see Curufin. We have found that although the unbodied spirits of horses can have no need for food, bedding or exercise, they don’t agree. They insist on all of them, provided at regular intervals, with the inevitable consequences.”

“You’re enjoying this,” Celegorm accused him.

Fingolfin shrugged, and waved an imperious hand towards the door through which he had entered. “I am told that door will take you to the stables, when you go through it. Your orders from your king are to work in the stables and not to leave them, except to visit your brother under the supervision of the Maiar. You are not to give commands to anyone, and not to get into fights. And not to lose your temper with the horses, though I hope I don’t have to tell you that. Do you understand and will you obey?”

“Yes,” Celegorm said, reluctantly.

“Good,” Fingolfin said. “I, of course, have every faith that you will keep your word and obey your king, but Námo does not, and in his halls I must defer to his authority. You will find Huan in the stables. He has been given the task of ensuring you do not make trouble.”

“ _Huan?_ Why Huan? He turned against me and went with Lúthien.”

“Because that is what I have persuaded Námo to agree to. None of his Maiar are eager for your company, but Huan’s spirit was willing, when Námo asked him, and Námo has considerable confidence in his common-sense. I suppose he must be used to you.”

“I’d rather have anyone else,” Celegorm said.

“And I’d rather you were more like your brother Maedhros, but we don’t always get what we prefer,” Fingolfin said sharply. “I’ll leave you to your work, then.”

He paused for a moment by the door. “If you had asked me as your uncle, I would have tried to find a different path,” he said. “But since you would prefer to speak with me even as a king than as a member of your family, then I shall deal with you as a king.” And with that, infuriatingly, he left. Celegorm could see exactly why his father had always found Fingolfin so annoying.

******

The stables of Mandos were huge, dimly lit, and busy with indistinct flicking tails, heavy hooves and flowing manes. There was a stable-smell too, which was oddly welcome: the Halls of Mandos usually had almost no smell at all. In the far distance he could see horses moving through wide doorways that led out into sunlight, but in front of him, a pair of large dark-amber eyes were regarding him thoughtfully at almost his own eye level.

“Hello Huan,” he said, not bothering to speak in any of the languages of hounds. Huan could understand the speech of Elves as easily as Celegorm himself. “They have sent you a wolf of the wild to run in couple with you, hoping that he will become a hound again. A stupid idea.”

Huan got up, came over and leant against him massively.

“You lost your new mistress, I hear. She went off with Men, where you can never follow. You can’t come crawling back to the wicked wolves now,” Celegorm said bitterly, but he did not move away. Huan looked at him reproachfully.

“You are supposed to be a wolfhound, and hunt wolves to the death without pity,” Celegorm said, and rubbed at Huan’s long plumed ear, so that he tilted his head towards Celegorm’s hand and made a deep rumbling groaning sound.

“The greatest wolfhound in all the world, who will speak three times in his life, and cannot die until he meets the greatest wolf. We thought it would be you and I who would hunt the great wolf together. But no, you turned on me, went off to hunt with Beren the Man, and died protecting him, and in the end, not one of your words was for me,” Celegorm said. “If you thought I was wrong, you could have spoken to me.”

Huan pushed his large wet nose behind Celegorm’s ear, and gave him a sideways look that was weary, sad and tolerant in equal measure.

“I wept for you,” Celegorm said. “More than anyone in Doriath did, I imagine... You were supposed to be _my_ dog.”

Huan opened his great mouth, delicately set his long canine teeth either side of Celegorm’s throat. He made a long, menacing rumble.

“I’m dead already, idiot,” Celegorm pointed out. The pressure on his neck increased a fraction and he wondered what would happen if Huan broke the neck of his entirely unreal body. He leant back against Huan’s great hairy neck to relieve the pressure of his teeth, and the wolfhound growled again.

“Oh, very well! I made my choice and so did you, and no, you aren’t my dog and never were. You are your own, and make your own choices. Happy now?”

Huan let go of his neck and sat down, looking intently at him again with those huge solemn dark-amber eyes. He could feel another pair of eyes upon him too, from the top of a pile of bales of straw. He looked up and sideways and saw the cat, looking very small suddenly compared to Huan, crouched warily above them.

“I might have guessed you two would know each other. Both of you make your own choices,” he said to them both. “I wish I was a cat, or horse, or a hound, if I cannot be a wolf. Your choices seem simpler to me than those of Elves, and a good deal more entertaining too.”

Huan shook himself, massively, long golden hair flying in all directions.

“Well, perhaps,” Celegorm said.  “Perhaps they wouldn’t be if they were mine.  But I still think your choices were much more fun than mine.”

Huan put his long neck down, and nosed deliberately at a bucket that was standing by the wall, next to a long shovel.   Celegorm looked at them and sighed. “Right. For Curvo’s sake, my choice must be to follow the command of that very tiresome king, to curb the wolf, and play the stable-boy for Námo’s amusement. ”

And he picked up the shovel and the bucket, and went to look for Fingolfin’s horse Rochallor.

**Author's Note:**

> This work is supplied bound with a copy of the poem ['Cat'](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Cat_\(poem\)) by the noted Hobbit poet, Sam Gamgee.
> 
> Where Celegorm says 'a wolf of the wild to run in couple with you' to Huan, he is referring to an old hound-training technique where an inexperienced younger hound is attached at the collar to a more experienced animal with a 'couple' of metal links, so that the younger dog must stay with its partner and can learn from running with it.


End file.
